The Recruit
by hadejayden
Summary: Post-His Last Vow. Sherlock is intrigued when a mysterious woman arrives at Baker Street claiming to have information regarding Moriarty. Will her unexpected arrival finally lead him to the consulting criminal he has so desperately longed for this past month? Rated M for some partially unrequited sex. In progress. Chapter 3 now up!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock was lighting fires again.

Apprehensively stepping through the doorway of his old flat, John waved his hand gingerly across his line of sight, as the streams of thick smoke threatened to engulf him from several angles. The room was consumed by a deep, grey-ish haze that obscured most of the furniture, and the lone figure within it. Sherlock sat on the floor, with his long frame facing away from the doorway; a small pile animated paper beside him, and a single lit matchstick in between two fingers.

Letting his free hand graze across the neat collection next to him, Sherlock plucked the first from the pile and allowed his flame free reign. Caught in a blaze of bright orange fury, his unfortunate selection shriveled as it burned, leaving only a tiny fraction of it's original size to be eventually extinguished.

He had taken to lighting things on fire lately. John had suggested candles, but they didn't have the same effect. His hand was already reaching for another piece when he heard movement behind him.

"So you're burning Christmas cards now?"

"Don't worry, I haven't gotten to yours yet"

Sherlock smirked, proud of his own retort. Blowing out his match, he shifted his position and turned to face John, who was now frantically moving his arms around the room in a failing attempt to clear the air.

"I told you to stop this, Sherlock", he said, his voice only slightly raised as he strode towards the window, "if Mrs Hudson ever finds out she'll have a coronary."

Pushing open the glass as far as it would go, he turned and surveyed the room that, despite his efforts, still remained as chokingly dense as before. He began clearing his throat.

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock sighed dramatically. "For God's sake, it's just a couple of cards! It's just a few pointless magazines! It's just some worthless literature that nobody's ever going to read again!"

"It doesn't matter what it is, Sherlock! It's smoke, and it's fire, and it's dangerous, in case you hadn't realised," John shouted across the room. He was already thoroughly exasperated and he'd only been here two minutes. A new record.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he heard Sherlock slump into the arm chair behind him. He shut his eyes, trying desperately to maintain composure.

"If you're bored why don't you find a new case?"

"Haven't you seen my website lately?" Sherlock scoffed, "Nothing but imbecilic accounts of how someone might, maybe, perhaps think that their equally simple-minded husband or wife is cheating on them, or ridiculous stories concerning the loss of a loved one that just seemed a little bit suspicious, or-"

John held up a hand, "Alright, alright, it's been slow lately, I know. But you can't just-"

"I thought you weren't coming over today"

"Mary's scan was rescheduled"

"Oh"

The doorbell rang.

Sensing that Sherlock was in no way going to remove himself from the chair, John began moving towards the stairs. He hovered around the doorway, choosing his next words carefully.

"Look, I know you were expecting something big after... All of that. And I know you were disappointed. But, this...", he motioned to the scattered grouping of charred paper on the floor. "You can't just sit around doing this. You can't just wait for something to happen."

Sherlock studied him. Since his almost ostracism to Eastern Europe over a month ago, he had noticed that John had been paying him a lot more visits than he had done before. He recognised that it might have had something to do with a certain sentimentality surrounding their apparent status as best friends, which had been quickly reaffirmed on discovering that he wouldn't have to engage in a top secret MI6 mission abroad after all. He realised that John could possibly be worried about him, as he spent every waking moment pouring over the details of Moriarty's supposed resurgence, wondering when exactly the world class criminal would make his reappearance, almost _willing_ him to hurry up and just reassemble his network again so that he would finally have something to _do._ He had also noticed that John had gained another three pounds since their last meeting.

The doorbell rang again.

Sherlock glanced towards the hallway. "Are you going to get that?"

John sighed heavily before disappearing through the door.

Settling further into his arm chair, Sherlock considered his friend's argument before quickly dismissing it. There were plenty of things he could be doing to quell his boredom that were at least five times more destructive than lighting small fires within the safety of his own flat.

And as for finding a new case ? No, that simply would not work.

He knew that Moriarty's message was much more than straightforward scare-tactics. Sherlock knew that, somehow, he was going to come back, and that he needed to be ready. Finding a new case to pass the time would only act as an unnecessary distraction; one that would do nothing to ease John's mind, and one that would potentially provide the perfect diversion for Moriarty to strike.

He longed for the thrill of the chase, for the blood pumping through his veins. He would not achieve this with some mediocre dilemma concerning the normal, boring lives of normal, boring people.

No, he needed Moriarty.

He would wait.

He could hear faint murmurs as John and a young woman - probably about 5ft 5, slim build, not athletic, nor was she quick on her feet, judging from her footfalls – made their way up the staircase.

Sherlock made a point of groaning loudly.

"No, I don't want any clients John, we have been through this!"

He allowed his body to become limp, sinking even further into the chair, as he heard John muttering apologies to the obviously, deeply uninteresting woman approaching the doorway.

"Sherlock, I really think you should-"

"No! Definitely not!" Sherlock declared, letting his eyes wander over the figure who had just been lead into his sitting room.

She was no more than twenty-three, possibly twenty-four, but judging from the specificity of the large satchel she carried on her shoulder - containing a laptop, several notepads and a variety of pens -, Sherlock knew she was still in university. Either that, or she was a teacher, but she really didn't look like a teacher, so he settled on student. She wore glasses that were sizable and round, but they sat awkwardly on her nose, suggesting that she didn't wear them very often, and was probably only wearing them now to appear a little more intelligent than she really was. He could see that she was tired, even though she had attempted to cover up the bags beneath her brown eyes with some expensive make up that did, in fact, appear to be professionally applied. Her hair had been recently dyed a light auburn, although, it was not too recent judging from the small amount of black he could see contrasting it in her roots. She was extremely anxious, and yet, jittery, as if she had just finished a cup of coffee containing three or four shots of expresso in record time. The small marks on her wrists indicated that she had been working at a desk all day – possibly struggling to complete an essay before it's deadline? Yes, definitely a student. And definitely boring.

Sherlock feigned a smile. "I'm sorry, I fear my friend John here may have misled you. I'm not actually taking any clients today."

The woman opened her mouth to speak, only to be immediately cut across by John.

"Sherlock, will you please-"

"No John, I won't", he was standing now, edging slowly closer to where the two were positioned. "I am not going to waste my precious time with someone like this, when-"

"It's about Moriarty... Mr Holmes"

She had spoken in a timid voice, with a faint accent that Sherlock recognised as originating from Dublin. He turned to face her. Something in her tone told him that she was not bluffing.

"What do you know about Moriarty?"

She wrung her hands together nervously, letting her fearful gaze wander from one man to the other.

John gave her a small nod. "Go on, tell him"

She took a deep breath. It hitched in her throat numerous times.

"James Moriarty... He's my brother"


	2. Chapter 2

John had motioned for this woman to sit where all of their clients sat, anxious and unsuspecting, while they were grilled and probed insistently to see if their little problem was at all worthy of anybody's time. She wasn't a client yet, but he had an inkling that she was about to become one. Downstairs she had fidgeted with her hair, glasses and satchel strap before admitting to him that she was Moriarty's sister, and contrasting to any sort of reaction he would have expected to have with regards to hearing such a statement, John had stepped aside and allowed her to enter the hallway. Her apparent stark innocence had convinced him that she was not dangerous, and her almost outlandish _averageness_ had somehow persuaded him that she might actually be telling the truth.

Since her second admittance, Sherlock had remained mute.

Her watched her as she stiffly lower herself into the newly placed chair opposite his own; her bag becoming inelegantly tangled between her limbs, her hands unsure what to do with themselves.

She was frustratingly similar to anybody else who had had the distorted pleasure of occupying that chair before her, and he quickly decided that anyone who arrived at his flat claiming to be a blood relative of James Moriarty simply could not be so.

Sherlock looked at this woman before him and he was disappointed.

John had remained standing. After a moment, he sighed. "Sherlock, are you not going to-"

"What's your name?"

"It's Rosie." She didn't stutter.

"Rosie what?"

"Murphy?"

Sherlock raised an inquisitive brow. "Not Rosie Moriarty then?", he said, his tone only ever so slightly on the borderline of mockery.

Rosie shook her head slowly. She glanced between the two men in front of her, as if suddenly becoming uncertain of her decision to visit.

"No, Moriarty is not my name", she said, her response barely more than a whisper. Her gaze had quickly become transfixed on her hands that continued to twitch nervously on her lap. "It's not my name, and it's not his either. It has never been, or will come to be, anything other than some meaningless, petty addition for a man to make himself appear more plausible than he is, and less ordinary than he would like to be."

She took a deep breath. Her hands had begun to shake.

John opened his mouth to speak, only to be swiftly cut off by Sherlock who gave a brief nod.

"Murphy isn't impressive enough for his clientele?"

Rosie shook her head again, raising her stare for only a second. Her eyes had become glassy. Her voice trembled. "It would appear not, Mr Holmes"

There was a brief silence.

Suddenly this girl had become slightly more interesting.

"So tell me, Rosie," - he said her name with a small smirk usually reserved for those who required only a subtle patronising - "Why now?"

Quickly clearing her throat, Rosie gave a small sniff in an attempt to compose herself. "Why now, what?" she said, her thin brows knitting together.

Sherlock shot her a condescending grin. "Oh, just that your _brother_, quote un-quote, has been in this game for years, and he has also been out of the game for years, so why would you – his supposed sibling – decide to come to me today with the intention of asking me to stop him?"

"Stop him? No, you don't understand," Rosie retaliated, her hands desperately searching for something among the depths of the satchel at her feet. "I didn't decide anything, Mr Holmes..." Her words had become choked with some kind of emotion that Sherlock chose to remain utterly oblivious to as he sprang himself forth from his arm chair, chuckling as he did so.

John sighed, again.

Sherlock was still chuckling as he whirled around - with full intentions of telling this woman that her performance was simply not impressive enough to warrant his complete attention and that, regrettably, she would have to leave now – when he saw the crumpled envelope positioned between two of her trembling fingers.

"He told me to come to you. He told me to come here." She spoke the words as if they terrified her.

Rosie placed the envelope among the clutter of the coffee table between them. It fluttered for a moment as she quickly withdrew her hand, as if holding onto the paper for a second too long would cause some kind of irreparable damage to her self.

Sherlock stared at the envelope, motionless. "What does it say?"

"You can read it if-"

"No, I asked you to tell me what it says!" he exclaimed, unsure of whether or not he had actually meant to raise his voice quite so high.

John took a reflexive step forward, his arm outstretched. "Sherlock, maybe this wasn't such a good idea"

Rosie had begun to cry. The tears that had been threatening their arrival finally spilled over her waterline and proceeded to cascade down her lightly pinkened cheeks. She instantaneously brought both hands towards her face, as if some vague attempt of hiding her features would mask the harsh sound of air being fought for within a set of lungs that did not have the capacity for such moments of broken crisis.

She was shaking her head again. Half hidden behind her fingers, she spoke.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wasn't even going to come here today but I thought it would help, I thought that maybe...", she paused, wiping anxiously at her cheeks. What remained of her previously immaculate complexion had become vastly streaked by her own melancholy. The tiredness around her eyes had exposed itself perfectly.

Sherlock and John remained silent. Gesturing towards the envelope, she continued.

"He's never wrote to me before. Not since he left. At first, I assumed it was some sort of joke because, you know... But when I was reading it, the letter, he started talking about all of this shit we used to do when we were kids and I just knew. Nobody else would know about any of those things..."

She trailed off, locking her gaze firmly on the far side of the room.

John, who had become deeply astounded by what this woman was telling them, had begun to make a series of mental notes regarding her speech. He turned to Sherlock, almost expecting to see the same look of attentiveness on his face. He was not surprised to see that he was, instead, rolling his eyes.

Not entirely ignorant to this, Rosie reached into her satchel again. She used her free hand to push up the glasses that had steadily began to slide down her face, while pulling out her phone with the other.

"I figured you wouldn't believe me," she said quietly, her thumb gently scrolling along the smooth surface of her screen, "but he left me a number too. For you."

Her gaze locked with Sherlock's as her slender arm outstretched, presenting him with the device that could potentially put him back in contact with Jim Moriarty. He stared at it, unmoving.

John leaned forward, glancing hurriedly between Rosie and the phone. "What er, kind of things are in the letter?"

Sherlock's attention was static. He surveyed the screen before him with definite precision, as if it could possibly reveal something far more determining than a simple combination of numbers under the doubtful heading of _'James?'. _Could it have been even remotely plausible that the last month's anxious waiting had all been leading up to this very day, with this girl - here, now - because _he _was back, and he was absolutely sure of it; purely based on the fact that this supposed sister of his had shown him the same number that he, Sherlock, had had saved in his own phone for almost three years now under the surprisingly undoubtful heading of _'Moriarty'._

There was no way a simple-minded student could have acquired that information elsewhere. She was telling the truth.

And it was all going to start happening again, very soon.

Sherlock tried desperately to hide the illustrious smile threatening to burst forth, while nonchalantly slipping the small, white envelope from the table in front of them into his pocket. Surely he shouldn't have been this utterly delighted that a genuine menace to society was potentially going to waltz back into his life again? And yet, he was.

He hadn't noticed that Rosie was speaking again.

"... Mam and Dad weren't home a lot so when he'd gotten old enough he used to look after me on his own, and we'd just get all these blankets and pillows and hide out in them. He made me feel so safe. I used to think that I would have done anything in the world for him. I didn't know what to do when I saw he was... When I saw-"

"Yes, yes, adorable brother turned crazed, murdering, psychopath, we get that one all the time here, don't we John?"

Abruptly taking Rosie by the crook of her elbow, Sherlock thrust her bag into her unsuspecting grasp and ushered her towards the door.

"What are you doing?" asked John, the hint of protestation in his voice was quickly masked by pure exasperation.

"I'm not wasting my time, John, that's what I'm doing!" Sherlock responded, quickly slamming the door in her incredibly distressed face.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you-"

He held a single, silencing finger to his lips. John quietened.

A brief moment passed before they heard Rosie's soft footfalls descending the hallway stairs. Sherlock waited until the front door slammed before turning to face John. "Okay, what did you want to say?"

"She was telling the truth you know? She was obviously telling the truth. And you just let her walk out of here?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, feigning absolute wonder. "Oh and why was that?"

"Did you not see her?" he replied, gesturing wildly towards the street below. "She was in pieces talking about him, Sherlock. She just wanted, I don't know, guidance or something. I know you don't exactly have a wide sentimental range, but Jesus..."

"I know"

"You know what?"

"I know she was telling the truth" Sherlock declared arrogantly, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Of course I knew, what do you take me for?"

"Then why did you..?"

"Well, I don't want _her_ knowing that I know, do I?" he said, gingerly pulling the further crumpled envelope from his pocket. "It would compromise the whole situation"

John shook his head. "And what situation is that?"

"The Moriarty situation of course. That girl is our contact. We can recruit her"

"Recruit her to do what, exactly?"

"Take us to him"

* * *

He sat with his phone on his lap, unlocked and fully charged, awaiting a communication he was certain he was finally close to receiving. Smooth, slight fingers grazed the brightness of the screen before him, brushing their tips along the strict contours of the image beneath the thin glass.

Jim sighed. He studied Sherlock's face – his newly selected background of choice – and smiled to himself. Ensuring he was completely alone, he blew a wet kiss towards the screen.

"Daddy's coming for you, darling"

The brightness dimmed, and finally, faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3

Rosie sat with her back flat against the partially crumbled wall of the bypass. It was only quarter past five but the sun was already setting, and it had been at least seven minutes since a car or van or any form of vehicle had passed. She had walked from Baker Street to the outskirts of the city; her eyes puffy and stained with the remnants of the mascara she had so carelessly smudged with balled up fists, that would probably remain clenched until the sudden, yet reoccurring sadness dwelling inside of her sank back down into the hollow depths from whence it came.

The trip had ended up being longer than she had been told it would be. London was not how she remembered it, but nothing rarely was.

She checked her phone – the one that _he_ had given to her – for the third time since she had sat down on this incredibly specific part of the road.

15.17pm

Just three minutes more.

And if she was still seated in this same place after those three minutes had passed, she would know that she had failed, that she wasn't welcome back, that she had been cast off.

Seventeen minutes past turned to eighteen minutes past, and finally to nineteen minutes past before a faint set of headlights appeared from beyond the distant bridge.

Rosie's mental attempt to refrain herself from standing too soon was unsuccessful, and she used whatever strength she had left to push herself upwards. She fiddled with the hem of her shirt as the Mercedes slid to a stop before her, realising that she was actually being brought back, that she was to be rescued from this place.

The tinted, front window rolled down to reveal a single, bald-headed, shades-wearing driver. He was unfamiliar to her, like most of those who she had come into brief contact with these past few years, but that didn't matter. Without removing his hands from the wheel, or his gaze from the road, the driver spoke.

"Get in"

Rosie nodded before pulling open the back door and scrambling into the plush seat that now promised her journey back to regularity and assurance. She sighed deeply as the Merc began moving, gliding almost soundlessly along the lengthy, narrow street in front of her.

"Was he-" Rosie started, unsure of what it was exactly she wanted to ask. "Did he... Say anything?" she finished, lamely.

Her eyes met the driver's in the rear view mirror for a split second before he hurriedly flicked his gaze back to the dashboard. He didn't answer. 

* * *

After her eventual arrival at the secluded, grandiose structure she had thought she had become so completely and utterly accustomed to, Rosie was led to a section of the building that was unfamiliar to her.

The reticent driver left her in a dimly lighted room of enormous space, where the walls seemed to stretch for endless miles above the floor, despite the fact that Rosie had determined they were almost definitely underground. The space was almost entirely empty – populated only by the solitary metal chair in the centre of the expanse. It's chill stung the back of her bare thighs as she lowered herself into it.

The enormous door slammed shut behind her, as the driver disappeared with her satchel, phone and glasses.

She guessed she wouldn't need any of those things anymore. And they had no evident use for her, either. Her body stiffened on hearing the bolt slide across the latch.

Minutes passed with absent speed before a small, wooden door at the opposite end of the room creaked open. Moriarty casually stepped through the frame, gently sealing the opening behind him as he did. He began sauntering quietly towards the middle of the space, his audaciously expensive shoes clicking against the cold, stone floor with every step. His stare remained firmly locked on Rosie as he moved, his dark orbs travelling along the contours of her form, his expression unchanging.

"I see you got on well!" he exclaimed. His melodic tone rose to the heights of the shadowed ceiling above. "Glad to be home?"

She nodded in what he perceived to be a terribly over-enthusiastic manner, her head nodding violently atop her rigid body, her eyes wide and glistening, craving his attention.

Moriarty chuckled to himself as he continued walking. He couldn't blame the girl for being relieved. She was his pet after all. His little, reliable, passive pet. It had been almost a whole year since he had mercilessly plucked her from her hardly fruitful life on the streets. Cruising along the west bank of the Thames, he had peered through shaded eyes at the variety of bare existence there was in the city; huddled beneath frayed blankets and torn sleeping bags under the glint of the moon. If Sherlock could recruit some of the lowest states of society for his own benefit, then why couldn't he? London was teeming with homeless people. Just one wouldn't go amiss. He had caught first sight of her cowering on the corner of Piccadilly station, and it had not taken a whole lot to convince her to come with him. The promise of a warm bed and as many hot meals as she could dream of were simply too enticing to refuse. The inevitable remolding of her character – the creation of 'Rosie Murphy' - had come later; as soon as Moriarty had confirmed that she was indeed up for what he had in mind.

"I'm so glad Jim, I'm so glad to be back. It was awful out there, I-"

Moriarty came to a halt before her, his head shaking slowly from side to side. "I told you not to call me that, darling"

Rosie's hand crept to her mouth on realisation of what she had said. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-", there was a slight pause, "-... Moriarty"

A sated grin spread across his face as he nodded briefly and outstretched his arms before him. He allowed his palms to rest atop Rosie's shoulders while he squatted to her level.

"Yes, that's right. I wouldn't want you to forget yourself now, especially after we've had such a successful day," Moriarty said, his voice becoming barely more than a whisper. He twirled a small piece of her hair between his fingers. "I mean, you played your part beautifully, just beautifully. It is really astounding what one can achieve in such a short space of time."

Rosie opened her mouth to speak, only to find herself being yanked into a standing position by her captor. His hands were still firmly attached at either side of her neck, with one solitary strand of hair still trapped inside his fingers. He was licking his lips. She knew what was coming.

"When are you going to tell me what it was all for? I still don't know why you made me go there... Why you made me leave here."

"That isn't something you need to know"

"But-"

He pressed a soft thumb to her lips. "Shhh, please don't talk, Rosie..."

But to him, she was not Rosie anymore. Nor was she some tramp he had picked up from a street corner. Moriarty had done this enough times to have perfected his experience. He could feel what he wanted to feel, and see what he wanted to see. The hair that he so carefully twisted between his thumb and forefinger was not the bronze hair of a previously bedraggled woman in her mid-twenties; it was the dark, curled hair of someone who spent his time solving murders and resolving cases among the ordinary people, it was the hair of a man who had captured Moriarty's undivided attention too long ago to not have come into some form of this craved contact yet, and it was the hair of somebody who he was so frustratingly close to claiming as his own, finally, after all these years.

The strands he held so tight were not hers, and the lips he grazed his fingers across were so, even less. In this moment, they belonged to Sherlock. It was all him. Every inch of the body before Moriarty had become what he wanted it to be, he could witness it before him as if it were truly real, and not some fictitious creation of his own convoluted mind. He had done this enough to ensure that.

Hurriedly he pressed his lips against those before him, those of his own personal consulting detective, not waiting for the gradual partition of of his lover's mouth before thrusting his own tongue inside. He could feel Sherlock's tongue sliding skillfully against his own, the desperation manifesting itself further with each kiss. Moriarty released his hands from the deadly grip they had secured within Sherlock's locks, and clumsily re-positioned them – one around his waist, and the other pressing harshly against the thick, throbbing member that, if he focused severely enough, he could feel perfectly through the thin material of the other man's pants. It pulsated at his touch, as Sherlock let out a gasping moan that sent a flurry of reverberations throughout Moriarty's body. He clasped his fingers tighter around Sherlock's shaft, his nails haphazardly digging into the strained fabric that separated skin from skin, the only barrier restraining Moriarty from pumping that swollen flesh until it coated his hand with the creamy effects of his orgasm.

Groaning intensely at the thought, he swiftly broke their kiss and began frantically pulling at Sherlock's belt. On the second tug it drew free from it's loops and joined the shirt, that he had so generously removed from his own torso, on a pile beside the chair. He effortlessly dragged his trousers and underwear down long, thin legs, before adding them to the collection of discarded clothing before him. Moriarty surveyed the body before him, drinking in the sight of his complete exposure and vulnerability as he stood there, utterly naked. He had memorised every inch of Sherlock's form, how he imagined it would be, but each time he was continuously struck by the intricacy of detail his mind had managed to achieve, how _real_ it felt to see this man as he was, ready and waiting to be taken.

Moriarty was already panting.

Still fully clothed, he reached forward and grasped Sherlock's pale hips, using them to twist him around and forcefully curve his spine downwards. He heard Sherlock grip the chair firmly for support as he swiftly unbuttoned his own trousers, sliding them down effortlessly from his waist, before roughly parting the trembling legs before him with a hasty motion of feet.

Taking his own pounding member in his hand, he positioned himself over Sherlock, his free fingers clutching wildly at the back of the chair for support. Their hands entwined together as best they could, against the slickness of the perspiration that was making it difficult to maintain a firm hold. The body beneath him was shivering. Moriarty placed a light trail of kisses along his spine. He tasted salt.

"Are you ready, Sherlock?" he said, his voice hoarse and strained, his cock gently probing at his entrance. "Are you ready for me, sweetheart?"

Without waiting for an answer, Moriarty pushed inside. Harsh flashes exploded behind his eyes as he felt himself become totally consumed by the man underneath him. He throbbed against the flesh engrossing him, convinced that with each manic thrust he would go deeper and deeper inside, until he became completely lost, and their bodies became one. Somewhere far away, he could hear the faint grunts of his partner, perfectly paralleled with his own penetrative force. The room had disappeared, along with the doubt and the faint, distant reminder that none of this was real, leaving only the basic actuality that this was in fact Sherlock, and that he was fucking him.

Moriarty could feel his orgasm approaching, rising from the deep pits of his stomach to end the only source of pure bliss he had ever known. Before he could even process this fact, he came hard and fast; a few meaningless jerks and spams removing him from his fantastical state of ecstasy.

His knees buckled as he withdrew, and he collapsed unceremoniously on the body beneath him, sending them both crumbling to the floor in a labyrinth of limbs and sharp breaths. He closed his eyes, half noticing the small hand still clutching onto his.

"I-... I love you" Rosie whispered, a slight waver evident in her tone.

Moriarty raised his head from where it had been tucked between her elbow and her hip. He pushed himself firmly away from her, his shaking hands frantically working to button his pants and readjust his shirt. He rose and finally allowed their gazes to meet, his eyes displaying a frenzied amalgamation of fury and grief.

"Don't say that. He wouldn't have said that"

He grabbed a hold of her wrist and abruptly dragged her across the room, stopping only when he had reached a wall with a thick pipe running its full length. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a long piece of wire and proceeded to secure it around Rosie's wrist, and then to the pipe in front of them. Before she could protest, he had expertly knotted the wire together, ensuring its durability.

Moriarty watched as she struggled, and as the wire found itself slipping into the groove of the previous indentation already on her wrist, he smiled briefly, knowing that Sherlock would have assumed this mark meant she was a desk worker, or something equally mundane.

"Sorry" he muttered as he turned away, not even remotely sure if he meant it.

Making his way quickly towards the door, he slid his phone from his pocket. 1 new message – 'He's on his way, boss. Watson is with him.'

Moriarty halted and turned back to face his captive. She was weeping soundlessly on the floor.

"Looks like we'll have to leave a little earlier than I expected, Rosie" he exclaimed, his curious eyes still scanning the phone in his hand. "I'll send someone to fix you up. It's time."


End file.
